Love, or what's left of it
by alicealice
Summary: He is another one of those idiots, who begs to be together with the one they know will only, and gladly break their heart. 5927, non-con, partners messing with each other's heads.


_Love, in the most painful way possible._

* * *

The man grabbed his bound wrists, painfully. It was only natural then, to scream, but the gray haired man did not react like a human, as the victim had hoped. This menacingly foreign side of a familiar partner, of the one he had always trusted, relied upon, and guiltlessly exploited. Some moments in a man's life, he will be beyond reasoning, and the usual calm, rational attitude will only serve as a stark contrast to this feral face. Every man, stripped of his suit, is just a mere beast. There is no thing such as a voice of reason, because not even the voice of the Holiest One, would get through to a man most impassioned on straightening out a most ugly love affair. Especially when this particular one who has had his heart clenched into meaty, bloody remains by careless fingers far too many times, and he is so very numb so very sick of it already he decides to stamp out the beginnings of guilt he is feeling before meting out punishment. For once, he will be the judge, and the small man will be on the receiving side of whatever blows he chooses to inflict.

He drags the petite man, brown haired and staggering uselessly on his feet, like an executioner dragging the unwilling to the waiting guillotine, and with one powerful wrench throws the powerless upon the bed. Silk sheet covers, the mere sight of it invokes in him the memory of the many nights his tears had disappeared silent upon them, like magic under the moonlight. He cannot believe it, but bitterness, more of it, manages to well up, like the resurgence of a wound he once thought healed. The oppressed does not consent on simply lying there, only so long can one lie upon a bed of thorns before he realizes his back will bleed. And that is an immaterial thought indeed. Fancy thoughts, like how he thought he could dance around a storm and never suffer for it. Now he knows, but like everything in life, it is only on your death bed do you realize you've never even come _close_ to loving anyone, let alone be loved.

Lies, lies, these things cannot be holding me, the man with cocoa hair thinks, and he struggles wildly to break free of all that is restraining him. The more he pulls violently at the ties the more they cut into his flesh, and he realizes he will not manage to escape. Despaired but not yet defeated, he launches onto the man with steel colored hair, cold fingers clawing onto soft fabric. He looks up, eyes pleading, fearful, but the man, the man he does not believe it, because what does the softest gaze, gentlest touch mean when cunning and treachery winds beneath them? Still, he breaks the gaze, because if he stares too long into it he will forgive the wayward lover once more, but he doesn't think he can endure another scene of unfaithfulness. For one moment, the petite man almost smiles, believing he has convinced the man of his lies once again and all will be well. One moment, however, is all that passes, and the other man is upon him, hands a cage around him. Eyes in a dark room, look down on him, and he feels the warm breath on his cheek, panting noises, so hungry and heavy they seemed to be like wolves closing in on him upon every direction in this room with closed doors.

It is then, he knows, this now should be the time. And it does come as expected! No gentleness, because the captor does not believe that forgiveness can be gentle. Rips in pretty shirts, harsh hands gripping sandy hair…This is the only way he will forgive him, this ungrateful wretch of a lover! Make marks upon him, so red roses pale beside it, bruises like chains around his thin neck. No animals escapes a fence unwounded. If scars is the only thing that is proof that you're mine, then so be it. If only someone had taught him there is no affirmative action in love.

And a strong lift of his legs, a thrust of intrusive entrance where only the most intimate is welcome…and he is torn apart, merciless. As if it is the first time he has felt it there. Already he can feel the bleeding, but the pain is secondary to the _thing _he is having between his legs. Take them out! Take it out! An opening so wide, too wide, he feels he can never close them again.

Pleasure and pain are reversible, like the roles of him and him and that third man……..Circling like a bird of prey around his hard-earned happiness, waiting to steal his precious love away if he so much as turns his back. He had been unsuspecting in the past, foolishly so. Perhaps the only wrong this crying being ever did was to be forced to choose between two equally loving but destructively possessive men. At this thought, the one above moves harder, faster out of spite…and the one trapped underneath hisses a name between clenched teeth, eyes closed with exiting tears already running. Skylark. Barely audible yet so hard to hear…between those tortured lips of yours. An inviting backhand reprimands him for even daring to sully this bed they share with that name. Too many times he has heard that one, wrong, hateful name uttered at times, uncontrollably but ever so hurtful. And it makes him sick that he is in the same _famiglia_ as that man. Then he feels the peak of superficially fulfilling, yet fleeting release. Not thinking for seconds, nothing pierces the afterglow of it except the sounds of sharp inhales and exhales melding with choked sobs.

Here it is like a conclusion, but only one where the audience frowns, one person cries and the other has his back turned. On the edge of the bed, crying into his palm, if he only knew what was left to feel grief for right now. Then again, grown men weren't much for thinking in the first place. Decrepit loves, traitorous feelings, and he just wants them all to be away. Gone with the gale. It is so hard to not be jealous, but such human a thing to do.

* * *

A/N: Oh, do _flame_ me!


End file.
